


Mark It Up

by nanailliterate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ghost Harry, Harry is dead, I put major character death but I mean Harry is already dead, Louis makes an appearance but he doesn't really help in any way at all, M/M, Zayn is alive, this isn't a sad story in my opinion, you are all safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanailliterate/pseuds/nanailliterate
Summary: Let’s start with the facts. Harry’s dead; gone, rotted, buried a solid six feet underground. Dead.Except, before he died, he was never really alive in the first place.(or, Harry’s a little creepy, infatuated and Zayn’s totally unaware and it’s kinda like bird watching except with tan skin and tattoos and a lot of affection and confusion and barely interaction whatsoever)(reposted from my tumblr account)





	

Harry looks out onto the vast landscape of the city, loving the sounds of life. He likes the sound of cars, he doesn’t know why, but he does. It’s probably because it makes him feel busy and full, like he has somewhere to go and people to see. He likes the sound of the jumbled murmurs of the New York City civilians, people that practically shout into their cell phones to make themselves heard, yet scowl when they’re noticed because they’re supposed to be incognito to their neighbor - faceless, self-conscious people on their way to somewhere real. Speaking of, though, he likes the sound of cell phones ringing too, he says it’s because that signifies communication with others, but really he loves to hear which ringtone or song goes with which person, its fun. But really, Harry’s favorite sound is  _ alive _ . It’s anything. A simple footstep or a yawn or a laugh or even a sob, those sounds have life in them, a force that created them.

He’s probably envious, actually, since he can’t do any of that anymore. Well, he can, but they go unseen and unheard from the people around him. He doesn’t like being invisible, a ghost, or maybe a lost spirit, a soul (because Harry likes to think he has a soul), but he does like privacy. He gets loads of it nowadays.

When you’re dead, privacy isn’t an issue, it’s plentiful, bountiful. There’s silence and privacy everywhere, mainly because other ghosts (or whatever they are) don’t really like to be around other ghosts (again, whatever the hell he is). Harry himself has only ever talked to just a handful of the people like him, and all the encounters were brief and rushed, not all that pleasant at all.

The other people like Harry prefer to wander around aimlessly, following whatever human captures their interest or curiosity at that moment. A majority of them follow their family members, but Harry likes to stay far away from that. Mostly because he doesn’t have any, and that thought alone makes him sad.

So he follows happy things.

He follows stray puppies and cats, because they’re spontaneous, roaming wherever they like and eating whatever smells good and living to their own beat. He likes following them the best, especially because they lead him to adventures. Humans, those poor creatures, can’t do that. They can’t give him that energy and adventure that he’s looking for. They’re so irritatingly naive, to the point that Harry wants to pull out his hair and scream  _ you’re wasting your time!  _ Even the greatest of professors and philosophers Harry’s come across are tainted as foolish in Harry’s mind. Humans. They  _ must _ go to school and they  _must_ go to work and they  _ must _find the answers; they _must_  do this and they  _must_ do that. And,  fuck , those poor souls, Harry thinks.

All they really  _ must _ do is die at the end of their lives.

That’s what he did, anyway. And he guesses it worked out okay.

\---

Everything’s so busy in the art gallery, at least in New York it is. Harry missed the calm, serene vibe that Cheshire gave. Or maybe it was just England, in general. The good English spirit.

But he would never go back anyway.

Here though, now, it was just people talking and children fussing and the fucking background music in the place that got him so put off. Paintings are quiet, so the people observing the paintings are supposed to be silent as well. At the very least, if not out of interest, than out of respect for the artist. The artist is screaming out to you through his or her painting, aching for you to try to encrypt their secret theme inside the paint that’s spread so purposefully across the canvas. How can someone hear those pleas when they’re having a conversation of their own?

Harry rolls his eyes, listening to two gossiping young girls talk about prom or some dance or another instead of trying to decode the inspiration locked into  _ La Grenouillère  _ by Claude Monet. He’s standing right next to them, waving his arms and pressing his lips together, holding up one finger to say  ' _silence_ '  to them but they don’t hear or see it, of course.

He sighs and walks past  _ View of Toledo _ (El Greco),  _The Oxbow _ (Thomas Cole), and  _ The Great Wave off Kanagawa _(Katsushika Hokusai). He pays his respects to the dear and beautiful  _ Madame X _ (John Singer Sargent) and finds the exit.

He leaves the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but he’s still craving it, craving the paintings and the wonder and the thirst he’s never been able to quench. He skips past the Museum of Modern Art and the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, famous museums cluttered with people; students touring for a field trip, women chatting and gossiping, men complaining for their departure, he doesn’t want to deal with those people.

He walks aimlessly for a while, turns a few corners and crosses the street and, suddenly, he’s in front of a place he hasn’t seen before. It’s an art gallery. It’s a relatively small building for New York City and pretty empty, though Harry can see a few paintings up on the walls here and there from where he’s standing outside looking in. The place is cramped in between other buildings, it could even pass for just another anonymous, small law firm or something, but it looks promising, and Harry’s a little desperate.

Harry crosses his fingers and opens the door, ready to make a run for it if more than twenty people are in there. But alas, someone up there heard his prayers because there are only a handful of people in the building, and they seem to be really studying the paintings like he wants to do.

He learns from a pamphlet on one of the desks near the check-in counter that he’s in the Agora Gallery, a place for upcoming artists to promote their works. New, young and flourishing artists that hope to become big. He normally doesn’t like galleries like this, since he likes the old style of oil paintings and self-portraits better than abstract, colorful mess on a board labeled ‘art’ but this place isn’t half bad. There’s barely any paintings on the walls but the ones that are on display are gorgeous.

He likes the one of the woman crying into her hands, her face askew. Her tears look like she’s melting her face away. He likes the sculpture of the man tearing his chest open by the skin, ripping away the pale flesh to reveal his blood-red heart. He likes the painting of a woman’s face partially hidden by her shirt, her eyes revealed. She’s looking to the left with a suspicious and cautious stare, like she’s hiding a secret and nobody can find out what. It creates a spark in Harry because he wants to find out what that secret is; it provokes such emotion and curiosity in him. And that, to Harry, is true art. The kind of thing that makes his lifeless, invisible person feel alive.

He walks around for a few minutes (it’s probably been hours though, Harry’s bad with time, since he doesn’t really need it anyway) and finally he sees it, partially concealed because of the large vase holding an unruly plant, in the back of the gallery in the corner. It’s beautiful, better than anything he’s seen before. It’s a large painting with cities and buildings on the top half of the canvas, then roots are coming down from the building, holding stars in the tangles. Below the stars is another city, and below that city are more full-handed stars. It goes on like a cycle, and Harry smiles at its creativity. He wants to know who the artist is, why he or she painted it, how they came up with the idea.

He quickly strides over to the painting and looks at the name tag on display.

'Zayn Malik,’ he reads, ’ _Underground City of Stars_.’

It says that this Zayn guy will be coming in tomorrow for a showing, that he’s on the list for the promotion tours.

Now, Harry isn’t one to be led into temptation, but the curiosity has already manifested itself inside him. He wants to see this  _ Zayn Malik _ guy more than he wishes to see the sun every morning. And, well, from there, that’s just kind of it.

So it’s his lucky day, Harry guesses, he already knows who’s to be followed a day in advance.

Harry stays at the Agora Gallery that night, tries to memorize the titles of the paintings and the artists who painted them. It’s just a memory game he does often and it keeps him entertained, since he’s not leaving the gallery anytime soon. Or this earthly world.

Finally, after what seems like a millennium and a couple decades, the sun starts to arise and one by one, people slowly trickle into the gallery.

The place is quite a bit more crowded then yesterday, to Harry’s disappointment, probably because it’s showing day. However, it is durable and, really, Harry wouldn’t leave regardless.

He has an artist to meet.

Harry doesn’t dare to step five feet away from ’ _ Underground City of Stars _ ’ the entire time. He’s a little eager, you can say. He wants to see this Zayn Malik, see what he looks like and how he talks and how he walks and, mostly, he wants to see the inner workings of his mind. That may come a little later, though, but Harry’s patient, has had plenty of time to learn patience.

“Mr. Malik! I’m so glad that you can join us!” An enthusiastic woman’s voice echoes through the room, and Harry immediately abandons the conversation he’s eavesdropping into and snaps his head up so quickly that, if he had bones to break, his neck would surely have snapped in half.

He can’t figure out who the woman’s voice belonged to. His eyes scan the gallery, trying to find the source.

He doesn’t look for long, because suddenly, home comes knocking right on his head.

Harry hears a familiar accent, a British accent, Bradford, to be exact. It’s deep and lovely, and Harry can practically hear the English culture flowing out of his mouth as the voice says, “Wonderful to be here.”

Harry turns a 360 quickly, eyes falling on  _ Zayn Malik _ for the first time. Harry is not let down with the sight he meets in the slightest. Zayn has the loveliest caramel colored skin Harry’s ever seen. It looks smooth, as if it was painted onto his bones, smoothed over with a feather. His eyes, fuck Harry didn’t know it was possible to bring back the dead, but Zayn’s eyes had the capability to make his dead heart jump. They’re not brown; they’re  _ honey _ and  _ hazel _ and remind him of warmth, something he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He’s also wearing something so painstakingly ironic and different from the rest of the scene. While all the other artists are suited up in button up shirts and skirts or dress pants, Zayn’s perfectly comfortable in his jeans and grey sweater, rolled up to his elbows and revealing black, dark tattoos etched into his skin. He’s beautiful, just like the art he creates, and just like his art too, Harry finds him fascinating.

When Harry’s come down from his almost-aneurysm, he watches Zayn carefully, noticing the lazy smile on his face when an observer compliments him on his work, like he knows everything they’re telling him already. It’s not a cocky smile at all, just one of acknowledgment. It’s proud and Zayn knows he’s good, probably because if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t put in the effort anyway. Harry has a haunch about Zayn. He looks like the time of guy that goes all in or nothing, takes the risk and if it comes crashing down, he doesn’t take a second to hesitate before moving on to his next venture. Harry thinks he’s found his own exact opposite.

Harry sticks to Zayn, mesmerized. It’s addicting to watch Zayn when he thinks nobody’s watching him. Zayn looks out of place then, but it’s not like he sticks out like a sore thumb, it’s like he melts into the background but when someone notices him, they can’t simply  un-notice him. Just one glance and Zayn is engraved into a person’s brain. Harry knows this from experience, apparently.

Harry follows him around some more, glancing at the same things Zayn glances at and judging the works Zayn judges too.

“This one is nice. Looks like a lot of pain.” Zayn quite ironically mutters, spoken like a true young artist. Harry smiles, he should be allowed that much. It’s not directed to Harry, of course, it’s not directed to anybody. But Harry pretends like Zayn’s speaking to  _him_ directly , that he can see him and feel him and communicate with him. As of now, Harry’s favorite quality of Zayn is that he talks to himself often. It’s something Harry, in his condition, can get used to.

They spend the day together - kind of - just aimlessly exploring the gallery. Harry takes note of everything Zayn says, he tries to understand what type of art that draws Zayn's attention (city life, faces, passion) and the kind of art that doesn't attract him much (flowers, couples, pets) and Harry hasn’t enjoyed doing something so much before, maybe even in life.

Hours and hours pass, people trundle and thin out until the only people in the gallery are some of the artists with their families, the owners of the place, and Zayn. Harry doesn’t want to leave, he’s so reluctant to let Zayn go and let his new “friend” turn into a piece of history in the dried out textbook in his mind, but that’s what he does. He follows and abandons, he’s done it for such a long time. This shouldn’t be any different, but it is.

He’s just about to leave the art gallery when-

“Zayn, where are you headed, you got a place to stay?”

Harry turns around before he even thinks to, sees that one of the owners is sweeping the floor and leading Zayn out of the museum.

“Back to my apartment, I’ve got a place not too far from here.” Harry hears Zayn say, and just like that, a new peak of curiosity burrows its way into Harry’s mind.  _ What does his apartment look like? What kind of things does he decorate with? Does the room reflect the person? _

And well, it’s not even Harry’s coherent choice to follow Zayn out of the gallery and down the street to his flat.

Harry follows Zayn at a close distance, but doesn’t want to intrude in his personal space even though Zayn wouldn’t even know it’s being intruded in the first place. Maybe ten minutes later does Harry finally meet the building of Zayn’s abode.

It’s old. Like, 'bricks are falling off and spider webs are covering the building and I think I’ve just seen a ghost, please get me out of here’ old. Harry’s never been to this exact location, but he’s been around it, been to the alley right across from it and the park right down the street from it and the coffee shop where he people-watches right behind it. If only he’d wandered just a couple more feet, he would’ve (maybe) met Zayn months ago. Such a waste of Harry's eternal time.

The boy with the stilled heart walks into the flat, maybe a couple steps behind Zayn, and Harry didn’t really know what to expect in the first place. Maybe something otherworldly, like the stuff he never had as a kid, like a huge flat screen TV and gold encrusted tables with fluffy, fancy furniture. Something like that.

Harry is glad, though, that Zayn’s place is nothing like that. It’s a cozy flat actually and, although it’s nothing otherworldly, it fits Zayn better than any mansion-stocked place would.

He’s mesmerized. There’s mismatched furniture and glass vases with no flowers in it and clothes skewed about and it all looks so  _ good _ . So perfectly unorganized. The kind of shit Harry could never pull off in his lifetime.

Harry feels a little like a creep. Zayn’s perfectly comfortable right now, has no hint that he’s been followed and observed practically the entire day. But Harry isn’t going to stop, he can’t now. Zayn’s too interesting, too fascinating. He’s flawed in the best ways, has scars and bruises that Harry can see underneath his smile and it’s beautiful. It’s brave. Something Harry lacks in himself. Obviously, if this is where he is now.

Zayn’s room is pretty interesting too, just a few things here and there and it’s entirely too simple, even though it makes Harry roll his eyes because that too, is perfect. It’s great, the old radio on the desk and books everywhere and paints scattered around and cups and plates on the shelves and some painting canvas thrown about and it’s so annoyingly good. There’s a decorated handmade picture on the desk too. It looks similarly like Zayn holding the tiny hand of a little girl, green and purple hearts in various areas of the paper. Harry doesn’t really think this is one of Zayn’s works. It has the words 'I’m gonna miss you Z. Home won’t be the same without you.' sprawled out in messy writing that looks to be a child. Harry connects the dots and realizes that it was probably drawn by Zayn’s little sister and oh my god. Harry’s had an epiphany. Holy shit. Zayn, he has  family. And fuck. This visit is deemed much more overwhelmingly personal then Harry initially would have anticipated.

After Harry’s done reflecting on the meaning of life and whatnot, he turns around just in time to see Zayn pull off his shirt and head into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door on the way in.

Harry’s not weird (well, I mean) so he decides not to spy on a total stranger, and instead settles to have a look-see around. He lets himself out of the Zayn’s room and into the living room. There’s some pictures around but mostly it’s his art, either hung up proudly on the walls or sat on the floor and lent up by various furniture. He looks at the pieces there first, wanders into the little hallways and the kitchen and there’s literally at least one piece of art in every room. He loves it, very grateful that Zayn leaves chunks of himself everywhere he goes, just by the marks he makes onto a canvas.

Harry feels happy looking at the paintings, there’s so much depth to it. It’s so raw. Harry hasn’t spoken a word to Zayn, not a single syllable, yet he feels like he knows Zayn so well because he’s gotten a look at Zayn’s interior.

Harry’s had a few years - more or less - of being dead and wandering around various art museums to be able to have a pretty good hunch into a work’s meaning.

Zayn’s quiet, according to the paintings, and he enjoys his solitary time. There’s some uncertainty in Zayn’s artwork, like he’s barely pressing the paint brush to the canvas at times. Like he’s hesitant because there’s no eraser to wipe off any errors he might make. So Harry thinks Zayn may be a perfectionist, either that or he’s incredibly self-conscious. He probably spends a lot of time painting and than auctioning them out to types of galleries like the Agora Gallery. He’s dedicated to his work, that’s for sure.

Harry doesn’t need useless, trivial words to understand Zayn, doesn’t even need Zayn to acknowledge his existence to feel a bond with him, maybe something more.

Harry’s always been one to become attached way too easily, way too quickly. When he was alive, anyone who even threw him a tissue so he could wipe his nose with it was his “one and only,” his love. He falls in love like he studies art, with deep passion and devotion. That one fact hasn’t changed since his death, may have even enhanced it.

So because of this, Harry already knows that he loves Zayn, he can feel it in every inch of his body. It’s just that, no changing it.

The fact is, Harry’s not coming back from the dead, he’s just  not . So he might as well follow puppies and look at art and eavesdrop into conversations and fall in love.

It’s the least this life can do for him.

As Harry inspects one painting Zayn kept in the kitchen, he hears the shower turn off. He smiles, glad that Zayn’s finally out (because that was an incredibly long shower) since he was feeling a little lonely in this unfamiliar, yet comfortable, flat.

Harry calculates some time for dressing because he really doesn’t want to walk in on Zayn bare, that’s jumping to a level of feign intimacy that just doesn’t appeal to Harry when Zayn is uninformed about it, and after some time walks back into Zayn’s room.

Thankfully he’s dressed, now clad in a pair of light grey sweats and tank top with a band Harry hasn’t heard of on it, a beanie covering his head and a pair of black rimmed glasses set on the tip of his nose. He’s got earphones shoved into his ears underneath the beanie and he sways his head to the beat of whatever song is playing and bounces his fingertips onto his side rhythmically, subconsciously. He’s got a brush in one hand and a tube of green paint next to him, so Harry supposes that he’s about to paint, but he makes no move to. He looks kind of frustrated, and when Harry turns around to look in at what has currently offended Zayn’s entire entity, he sees that it’s just a blank page taped onto a canvas. Harry makes a face of confusion, has no idea how a poor inanimate object can irritate Zayn this much.

He thinks he begins to understand though, when Zayn grunts and abandons the paint brush to instead dip his long, piano fingers into the tube. He flicks his fingers carelessly once, ultimately spraying the canvas with messy drops of green.

Harry raises an eyebrow because this is exactly what he was talking about when he says he wants to avoid messy art pieces that look like someone’s just sprayed random paint drops onto a paper. There’s no objective to it, there’s not an image that’s in mind for the painter to create. Hardly art at all.

Harry scoffs lightly and turns to exit the room, now feeling personally offended by Zayn’s actions himself, when he hears the sound of the angels calling out to him, manifesting themselves in Zayns laugh.

He turns around and sees Zayn smiling softly to himself with each flick of the wrist movement he does that sends new drops of paint onto the paper. Harry can’t help but to smile as well, clearly taking a liking to this new mood Zayns taken in. Having fun. Harry can’t remember the last time he’s seen someone that could laugh when they’re alone. It makes Harry smile a little more and when Zayn hums contently and leaves the canvas to go into his closet, Harry takes the space there.

When he looks at it, its barely touched with paint, just dots splattered here and there. Harry sees Zayn exiting the closet with three large canvas in his arms, and he subconsciously dips his fingers into the green paint without tearing his gaze away from the boy he had only just met. He knows that the paint won’t be on his fingers when he looks down at his hand, so he doesn’t hesitant to touch his fingers next to the other green marks on the canvas.

He gasps.

There, on that very piece, are smudges of green.

Harry looks at his fingers quickly and feels a little dizzy to see what’s on them, to see the green paint now dried on his fingertips. He blinks, unable to grasp what’s just happened. He hasn’t seen anything on his body in so long, apart from the clothes he’s permanently clothed in from the night he died.

He looks up at Zayn once, who’s busy with setting up three more stands for the canvas to lay on, and runs the fingers that aren’t covered in paint over the ones that are and immediately regrets it.

As fast as the paint splotches came, as soon as he rubbed his hands together, they were gone.

X

Harry knows its wrong, that he could possibly be ruining Zayn’s painting with what he’s about to do, but he wants to do it.  _ So much_.

He’s sitting in front of one of the new paintings Zayn has just brought out, staring at it. It’s a painting of what looks to be a busy, run-down street somewhere in a city (Harry knew he loved painting city life, score one for him) called Sacramento, if the large billboard in the back has any indication.

This one may just be is his favorite besides  _ Underground City of Stars _ , and so this is definitely the painting he wants to do it on.

Ever since he’s first splattered those couple of paint drops onto that semi-blank canvas, he’s wanted to make marks. He  _ needs _ to make his marks on the world that abandoned him. To let it know he’s still here, that he hasn’t moved on, that he can’t move on, not yet.

It’s even better that those marks will be on Zayn's, the real life Greek God, canvas, as well.

Harry bites his lip. He looks the painting over again, not sure what he wants to do exactly. He just wants to do something to alter it. Mark it.

The closest color to him is red, (“Dutchlac Brilliant Tulip Red” to be precise) and its already uncapped. A crucial part of the plan. The color is vivid and dark, yet light and gives a glimmer of opportunity at the same time. It’s a little hard to explain, but it’s a nice color, basically. Harry probably would have chosen that color anyway, if he had a choice.

He dips his index finger into the paint, he can’t really feel the texture of the paint, but it makes his finger  a little heavier, if he thinks about it, which he does. He wants to save and memorize this feeling of  _ something _ on him.

He turns back to the painting and examines it, trying to find the perfect place to imprint his mark on. He finds it on the corner of the painting, where there’s barely a blank space, barely enough space to really do anything with, so Zayn probably won’t do anything with it.

He leans down to that bottom right corner and picks up his finger delicately, hesitant to press his digit to the board. He can’t mess this up.

It takes him a good five minute, which is entirely too long a time for what he did, but by the time he’s done, the letter 'H’ is branded onto the board. It’s tiny and a little sloppy since Harry’s working with his fingers and he can’t really feel anything so it’s hard to draw, but it’s clearly the letter 'H’ he’s just drawn.

Harry thinks its perfect. Adrenaline is coursing through his body, like he’s just died, came alive, and die d again. It’s just, he feels like everybody else is in a different layer of existence then he is, he’s alone and invisible. Now, he’s just broken through that barrier and made his mark onto the living. It almost feels spiteful, and Harry has a yearning to just run around and scream  _ I did it, I did it, you’re world isn’t as impenetrable to us as you think _ to randoms on the street. It’s there, permanently, for everyone to see.  _ His _ letter 'H’ is now apart of the world he once came from.

As he floats back down to earth, Harry smiles a little, those last few moments are the closest thing he’s gotten to life in a long time.

\---

The next morning, Zayn noticed. It was the first thing he did notice.

Harry is on the foot of Zayn’s bed, playing with his fingers and humming a tune from some song he’s heard as a ringtone a little while ago when Zayn yawns and sits up.

It’s a little unnerving, having someone look  at you without really  _seeing_ you. But Harry’s in Zayn’s line of vision, and Harry pretends that someone is really looking at him instead of through him for the moment.

Harry watches as Zayn steps out of bed and tugs on a shirt (Harry swears he didn’t look beneath the collarbones) and goes in front of his painting.

His eyes travel to the top of the painting all the way down, then his eyes stop abruptly to the bottom right corner and Harry’s heart beat picks up.

“The fuck?” Zayn murmurs, crouching down with furrowed brows and a confused expression on his face. Zayn brings his hand up and thumbs over the dried 'H’ paint, and Harry gets a jolt of electricity sent down his back.

Except, it’s not really a jolt, it really feels like a wave of pain and shock.

Harry gasps out loud, jumping from the bed. Tingles and static feel like its pumping into his non-existent blood. It’s like needles are sticking into his arm. It  _ hurts _ . For once in this life, he  _ feels pain _ .

“Ouch, ouch,” Harry whimpers from his position crouched down, turning his head to look at Zayn, who pulls his hand back quickly, staring at his finger with wide eyes. “Hell..” He whispers with urgency.

Harry doesn’t know for sure, but he’s pretty sure Zayn felt that too.

\---

“I don’t know Lou, I just feel so weird these days. Like- ugh,” Zayn stops talking and puts his head in his hands, a handful of months later.

Louis is over today and Harry frowns the slightest bit from his spot near the window as Louis smiles sympathetically and pats Zayn on the back.

Louis, Harry’s learned, is Zayn’s best friend. He’s this hyper little thing, he steals attention from anyone that offers it to him and laughs too loud and smiles at times when there’s nothing to smile about. Harry likes him. Kind of. He also kind of feels betrayed. Of course Zayn has friends, he’s a perfectly lovely lad. He deserves friends. Harry’s not jealous exactly, just a little grumpy because he and Zayn have a sort of friendship growing and he wants attention, too. But- Harry sighs, Zayn will never be in his realm. Zayn will never know who was Harry Styles, who died of excessive drinking at the age of 19 because he was depressed and never acknowledged at home, ignored at school, and faded into the background in life. Zayn will never know that even though Harry’s still invisible in death, just as how he felt in life, he felt a little less transparent in Zayn’s presence. Zayn will never know Harry, and Harry’s okay with that. Zayn’s touched Harry’s un-beating heart without even trying. But it’s not enough to bring him back to life.

Harry never really ceases to remind himself he’s dead.

“I just feel like.. Don’t laugh, alright?” Zayn says first, looking at Louis with a pointed look.

Louis rolls his eyes and leans back on the sofa, kicking his feet up on the table in from of them. “When do I ever laugh at you? I’m a completely serious and dependable friend.”

Zayn chuckles the slightest bit and nods his head in some kind of agreement, “Can’t argue with that.” He looks at Louis and sighs, “I just feel like I’m never alone, like there’s something- _ someone _ with me. I can’t explain it, Lou.” Zayn says quietly.

“Maybe you’re haunted by a ghost or something.” Louis says.

Harry whips his head in their direction.

Zayn snorts and shakes his head, “Thanks for coming over but I think you can leave now.”

“Hey! I’m being serious, git.” He quips. “Did someone you know die recently?" Zayn sighs and shakes his head. "Okay. How 'bout you try to talk to it.” Louis offers with a shrug.

“I’m not going to do that.” Zayn rebukes.

“Why? I’m trying to help. You have to help yourself too, you know.”

“This is silly.” Zayn mumbles, eyeing Louis.

“Just try it.

"Louis, no.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Louis says loudly, giving up on trying to coax Zayn. “Spirit?” He calls out loudly. Harry stifles a laugh.

“Alright, it’s probably listening. Okay.” Louis clears his throat. “Oh spirit that has become attached to Zayn’s attractive, manly form, we set your soul free! You can leave Zayn’s moody person and do something else! You’re welcome!” Louis says all too dramatically, giving one clap of his hands.

Harry rolls his eyes.

Zayn groans and falls back onto the couch. “This is silly.” He repeats.

Louis laughs at his own antics for a while, then shakes his head and sits back down next to his friend, “Look, I’m serious. I think it’s possible, you know? Ghosts and all. Maybe you’ve got one. You haven’t been sleeping well and you’re paranoid that someone is always watching you. You’re house feels a little less empty, doesn’t it? Why don’t you try it? It can make it go away.” Louis says, giving Zayn a sympathetic look.

Harry turns to Zayn and looks at him.

Zayn does look tired, there’s a faint trace of dark circles under his eyes and his hair is jostled more often than not nowadays. Harry lets the guilt sink into his bones.

It’s his fault Zayn is like this.

He reluctantly stands up. He's going to leave. He loves Zayn, and this is what Zayn wants. He can’t suck away Zayn’s life.

As he turns to the door his heart aches. With every step he moves closer to the door he feels it break a little. He’s about to step through the door (which by that time has buried his heart and had a memorial service for it) when he hears Zayn speak.

“What if I don’t want it to go away? Whatever it is, I feel like it wants to be here too. I feel a bond to it, you know? I just- I don’t want it to leave.”

Harry turns back and sees Louis furrow his eyebrows in confusion. He probably thinks his best friend has gone insane, but if he does, he doesn’t say it. Harry looks to Zayn, and sees the smallest of small smiles on his face.

Harry couldn’t leave after that. He just couldn’t.

\---

Harry knows that Zayn thinks that they have a connection.

And maybe they do, Harry hasn’t completely figured it out yet, but he thinks it has something to do with the p aint those months ago.

He had  _ felt _ something. That in itself is remarkable. He hasn’t felt anything in years, hasn’t had a single nerve in his body to jolt to life until that day.  When he first came into this world, he tried everything to feel alive. He jumped off of buildings, would put his hand in someone's garbage disposal, tried to drown himself in someone's pool. Nothing ever worked. Except this. It was a shock, it was life. Both Zayn and Harry felt something. It was a thrill.

But Harry learns that he can feel other things too, now, something nonphysical, but just as real.

Harry’s been there for Zayn through all of it. He feels something every time Zayn paints a new painting, he smiles just as wide as Zayn does. He feels something every time Zayn is sad or hurt, Harry wants to hug him, to make him feel better. When Zayn’s sad, he rests his hand on top of Zayn’s, and that shock is there again, just more subtle. Zayn feels it too. He always will. He loves Zayn, and sometimes, he feels like Zayn loves him too, he just doesn’t know it yet. And that is what Harry makes his decision on.

He needs to move on, not forever, but right now, he does.

On the nights when Zayn is fast asleep and Harry is at the end of the bed again, looking over at Zayn’s sleeping face or at his painting or something, his eyes will glaze over and suddenly, he’ll see it.

He’ll see Zayn’s life.

Harry’s seen that Zayn will get married to someone else and they’ll have kids and he’ll he happy. But he also knows that Zayn will always have Harry with him, in his mind and soul. Zayn will always wonder about the shock that he had once felt, he’ll always wonder where that 'presence’ went, why he no longer feels accompanied by someone when he’s alone. Harry didn’t mean to, but he’s not only marked Zayn’s painting that night, he marked Zayn’s soul that was poured out into the painting as well.

When this life is over and Zayn’s just as Harry is, Harry knows that Zayn will find him. He’s seen it. He kn ows it. He’s seen that Zayn will look the same way as when Harry’s first seen him, young, broody. The  _ artist _ . Zayn will take his hand, and they’ll leave.

They’ll move on together. Where? Harry doesn’t know. He's not exactly sure how, either. He’s not worried about it. It’s inevitable, so he’ll do what he needs to do when the time comes.

So tonight, just a few short weeks after Louis’ visit, Harry says goodbye to Zayn.

Its about midnight and the room is dark expect for the moon and the street lights that stream through Zayn’s window. He should fe el sad, maybe, but he doesn’t. He feels happy. He doesn’t feel jealous, even when he knows that Zayn will go on and married after this. He  _ wants _ Zayn to be happy, not the way that ex-lovers say to each other because they are moving on, but in that way that’s pure. He wants Zayn to be happy because after all this is over, Harry will get his turn.

Harry looks down at Zayns body, he looks so relaxed. He has stubble on his chin, and his features somehow look more defined than when Harry first laid eyes on him, even though its only been five months. He leans down the smallest amount, barely hovering over Zayn's body, just looking over his face, his features. His hand runs through Zayn’s hair, but the black strands don’t move, and that’s okay. Harry brings the other hand that’s not currently in Zayn’s hair and brushes his knuckles across Zayn’s warm cheek, but Zayn can’t feel it, doesn’t respond. Harry knew he wouldn’t anyway.

And finally, Harry closes his eyes and steals a kiss, pushes his lips gently onto the sleeping boy’s, brief, in a kind a greeting, sort of. Maybe more of a thank you. A  _thank you for making this 'life’ better than I thought would be possible for a while_ ,  or a  _thank you for giving me something to wait for and look forward to in death_ ,  or just a  _ thank you for everything _ kind of kiss. Harry decides its all of the above. The kiss lasts for a only moment, just lips on lips, and when Harry pulls away, his metaphorical breath hitches in his throat.

He didn’t think it was possible, but he’s managed to mark Zayn physically too, because when he opens his eyes, there’s a faint smile on Zayn’s sleeping face. Eventually, Harry smiles back.

He exits the flat that he’s come to call home with a smile and starts down a dark alley. He finds a stray cat on an adventure.

The last thing he thinks about as he wanders around after the animal is that even though he doesn't want to wait until he and Zayn and reunited again, he can wait. He’s always been patient.

**Author's Note:**

> I uploaded this story from my tumblr account, probably years ago, so I'm posting it here so it doesn't get lost!


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